The Flamepetal: Episode 1 of The Rec Room Series
by Lady Angel
Summary: The Rogues have to kill a Hoth night. They opt for stories. This is a varient on The Club Story, so popular at the turn of the 20th century. PG for violence, alcohol use, polyandry and slight subtext.


Title: The Flamepetal  
Author: Angel  
E-mail: valarltd@hotmail.com  
URL: http://www.geocities.com/lady_aethelynde  
Rating: PG, violence and alcohol use, subtext  
Summary: First in the Rec Room series. Rogue squadron decides  
to kill a Hoth night by telling stories.  
Type: Action/Adventure  
  
Disclaimer: If they were mine, I'd be off this rock  
so fast it would make your head swim. As it is, I own  
nothing except an expired passport, a handleless skillet  
and an option on a case and a half of A&W from Priceline.  
  
Acknowledgements: Every legend I pirated.  
  
Notes: This is a "Club Story." Only the frame  
is set in Lucas' myth. The rest is set on Corellia  
in the High and Far Off Time of "Once Upon a Time."  
Lynd (lind) actually is the Saxon/Old English word   
for serpent or wyrm. I've used it  
to mean "dragon." (Yes, it does tie in with the site name.  
"aethelynde" translates to "wise serpent.")  
Please note, the H/L is only subtexty in this.  
Unbeta'd, read at own risk.  
  
Feedback: I crave it. It's my favorite high.  
  
*****  
The Flamepetal  
Angelia Sparrow 2000  
*****  
  
  
  
"Hobbie, is that gunk ready yet?"  
  
"Another hour, Wedge. The synth is slow."  
  
"I'm not sure it's worth waiting another hour for.  
But what else is there to do? No patrols at night,  
the techs won't let us work on the ships, the booze  
is taking forever, and Solo and Antilles have all our money  
so we can't even play sabbac. Why am I freezing my  
c'lket off on this ice cube again?"  
  
"Aah, Jansen," Wedge cuffed him, mussing his hair, "you're  
just a sore loser." He struck a heroic pose  
and boomed like a holovid recruiter. "We're freezing our   
c'lkets off for truth, justice and freedom for the galaxy, of course."  
  
"And what, exactly, is a c'lket?" came the question from the  
door of the rec room.  
  
"Commander Skywalker, sir!" Wedge snapped to attention.  
Hobbie made a futile effort to hide the synth.  
  
"At ease. We're all off duty. Hobbie, is that gunk of yours ready?"  
  
"Not yet." He turned to fuss with it.  
  
"So, is anyone going to answer my question?" Luke  
sat down next to the small heater, exercisizing the  
one perogative of his rank that he allowed himself.  
  
From the corner, a sharp voice chuckled. "A c'lket is  
what your father gave you, and your brothers, and your mother but  
never gave your sisters." Luke looked at Han sharply, wondering   
if the Corellian had been sampling Hobbie's raw brew. He'd  
never been in a riddling mood before.  
  
Luke worked it out, and blushed despite the cold.   
"So what are we doing tonight?"  
  
"The usual. Waiting for the booze, complaining about the cold."  
  
"Sabbac?"  
  
"Nobody has any money left." Han grinned wolfishly.  
  
"And everyone's complaining about having nothing to do," Luke guessed.  
  
"Got it in one, kid."  
  
"I have an idea," came a voice from the back. A very young pilot  
looked suddenly uncomfortable at his own boldness. "What about  
stories?"  
  
"Stories?" Wedge laughed.  
  
"On my world, storytellers are highly regarded as keepers  
of our past and our souls. You cannot know where you are  
going, unless you know where you've been." The boy's nervousness  
was acute, but he plodded on. "We've all been some amazing places.  
Maybe telling about them would help pass the time."  
  
"Not a bad idea, Dak," Wedge said. "How about it? Solo, you've  
been almost everywhere, tell us about one?"  
  
Han tried backing out. "What, a bedtime story and then a lullaby?  
You want my old droid for that, not me." The rouges pressed him   
and he finally caved. "All right, how about the time Chewie  
and me went chasing the _Queen of Ranroon_?"  
  
Mutters of approval went up. A story about a legendary treasure  
ship promised to be exciting.  
  
"No," Luke's finality startled everyone. "If you're telling,  
there's only one story I want, the one you promised me. The Flamepetal."  
  
"All right." Han made himself comfortable. "This is an old legend  
my granddad used to tell me when I was a kid."  
  
*****  
  
Of all the trees on Corllia, the flamepetal is the strangest   
and most beautiful. It is always two trunks, growing side by side  
and twining together. It produces two colors of flower, one from   
each trunk. The flowers as large as a man's cupped hands, and each  
petal is shaped like a tongue of flame. They bloom through the  
summer and the smell is sweet and strong. Lovers, bondmates  
and friends give them as tokens of eternal faithfulness.  
  
Long ago, before we discovered even the the gravitic drive to allow   
us to leave our world, there were two friends, sons of a pair of sisters.   
Driek had been born at the rising of the first moon, and his hair was   
the color of the moon, as golden as molten srine. When the midwife laid   
him in the cradle, he fretted and would not be comforted. Hrahl was   
born at the moon's setting, dark as the night without the moon, with eyes   
as green as the flames of burning g'kal wood. The midwife laid him beside   
Driek, and the other ceased his wails.  
  
They were together from the cradle, learning to walk by holding onto  
each other, learning to talk together. Inseparable in school,  
inseparable at home. Where one was, so the other could be found.   
Their favorite place was under a pair of trees that had grown together  
to form a single trunk.  
  
As they grew, people nodded, expecting them to drift with age,  
or with the attentions of the girls. It never happened.  
They reached the age of majority believing themselves  
two halves of the same person.  
  
For the first time, they disagreed. Driek was studying   
with the leader of their village while Hrahl yearned for the  
far horizons. They made a pact that Hrahl would return once  
a year, and safely. Driek's mother was a wisewoman and  
hung a charmed stone from a branch of the twin trees.  
  
"As long as Hrahl is safe, the stone will remain clear.  
Should it turn green, he is in danger. If it turns  
red, he is dead."  
  
Hrahl kissed his aunt, and embraced his friend before  
setting off. Each morning before assuming his duties,  
Driek checked the stone.   
  
The first year slipped by. Driek was gradually taking on  
more of the leadership of the village. The stone stayed clear.  
On their birthday, he began to look for Hrahl. Morning passed,  
and he toured the outlying farms, collecting rents. Hrahl did not come.  
Noontime came, and the meal passed. Hrahl did not come.  
Afternoon wore on, and Driek, tired of pretending to do the  
village accounting, slipped out to sit beneath the twin trees.  
He watched the stone sparkle in the waning light. Hrahl did not  
come. At evening, as the shadows lengthened, and the light took on its golden  
tone, a figure appeared on the road. Dreik ran to meet his friend.  
  
The village celebrated Hrahl's return, and his tales of far places  
were much in demand. He lived peacefully for a time, but  
the wanderlust came again. Again, his aunt hung the enchanted stone,  
and again Driek checked it every morning.  
  
The second year slipped by. Driek was becoming the youngest leader  
the village had known. The stone stayed clear. Again their birthday came  
and again, Hrahl came at evening, just as the light turned golden.  
  
In the third year, when Hrahl had gone again, Driek checked the  
stone, and found it green. He told the leader he would be going for a time  
and went to his mother.  
  
"Mother, Harhl is in danger. I must go. Give me your blessing."  
  
"I shall do better. Here," she kissed his forehead, "is a  
blessing that will protect you from harm. Here  
is a ring that will guide you to him. Follow the direction of the  
prickling. It will guide you home again. And this," she hung a  
belt about his waist, "will allow you to see through any ill enchantments."  
She gestured to the trunk in the corner. "Take your father's sword.  
It is never dull, never rusts, and can cleave any opponent though  
he be made of stone." She filled his wallet with meat and bread,  
and walked him to the tree. She hung a second stone from the  
limb. "This will tell me if you are alive or dead. Come home  
safely, my son."  
  
Driek followed the prickling of the ring. It urged him ever forward,  
guiding him east and north. in each village and town he asked for   
news of Hrahl. After several weeks, the news began coming.  
Another two weeks and it was almost fresh.  
  
At last, upon the day Hrahl should have come home, Driek arrived  
in the great walled city of Tirna. The ring's prickling was almost  
unbearable as he walked the streets that were festooned as for a bonding.  
At last, he came to the castle in the center of town.  
  
"I seek Hrahl. He is dark, with eyes as green as g'kal flames."  
  
"The princess' protector is within. You have come to us on a doleful day,  
stranger. Tomorrow, the princess goes to the Great Lynd. Her protector will  
fight the monster, but in the end, both shall be devoured."  
  
"So, why the appearance of a bonding?"  
  
"The princess always bonds her protector the day before the Devouring."  
  
"I am the protector's cousin. Allow me in."  
  
Hrahl was seated in the Great Hall at the side of a slim, dark woman.  
He bounded from the chair at the sight of Driek. "I could not  
come home this year."  
  
"So I came to you." He bowed over the princess' hand. "Welcome,  
Your Highness, to the family. Tell me of the Devouring."  
  
A pall fell over the festivities and Hrahl removed him from the  
hall. As they talked in the antechamber, the party resumed.  
  
"I shall kill this monster, Driek. And the princess and I shall  
live together happily."  
  
"I am going with you. A second sword is always useful."  
  
They agreed, and it was announced the princess would have  
two protectors.  
  
At dawn, they went out, the princess between them, to  
face the Great Lynd. The monster came flowing  
over the hill, copper scales gleaming bloody  
in the rising sun, two heads breathing fire and  
ice, claws striking stone with a noise like an   
army beating on its shields.  
  
Driek and Hrahl stood fast, swords out, and   
faced the beast. His mother's kiss seemed to burn  
on Driek's forehead, and he threw himself in front  
of Hrahl who had no such protection. The first wave of  
fire parted around him, singeing trees and scorching the  
grass.  
  
They struck, but their swords rattled off the scales of the monster.  
It turned for another charge.  
  
Driek looked at it, and thanks to the belt, saw where the weakness lay.  
"Hrahl! Strike for its eyes!"  
  
Their swords went into the eyes, but not before the Lynd   
unleashed a final blast of ice shards.  
  
The noise ceased and the princess climbed the hill to find her  
two protectors lying dead in each other's arms: Hrahl frozen and  
pierced by the sharp ice, Driek slashed and bloody from  
the creature's death throes. The Great Lynd was dead as well.  
  
Their bodies were borne back to Tirna,  
and their mothers awaited the procession at the gate.  
They lay in state in the Great Hall, under preservation spells,  
Hrahl holding the severed fire head of the Lynd, Driek holding the  
ice head, for a year, and all the land paid its respects.   
  
The princess was delivered of a son before the end of the Mourning,  
with eyes as green as g'kal flames and hair as pale as the first moon.  
  
At the end of the year, their mothers took them back to their village,  
and buried them near the twin trees they loved. They were  
laid to rest, with the heads of the monster they had slain,  
in the same grave, as they had been lain in the same cradle.  
  
A year later, on their birthday, the princess brought her  
son to see where his fathers lay. From the grave had sprung  
two trees. They twined around each other until none could say where  
one began and the other ended. The leaves were dark and glossy.  
As the boy sat beneath it, the first of the flowers bloomed.  
It was as large a man's cupped hands, and the petals were like tongues   
of flame. The first bloomed as green as g'kal flames. The second,  
a moment later, bloomed as gold as molten srine.  
  
***  
  
There was silence in the pilots' rec room. Hobbie's synth   
continued ticking to itself, and finally pinged, breaking the  
spell of the story.  
  
"Wow!" ventured Dak. "That was worth hearing."  
  
Han, his throat dry, accepted a cup of  
the homebrew from Hobbie and glanced at Luke.  
The young Jedi was staring back, a wistful look on his face,  
his hair as pale as Corellia's first moon.   
  
Luke stared. The story had not been what he expected, but  
it had spoken to something deep inside him. As he looked,  
he saw that Han's changeable eyes had gone green, as green as   
the flames of burning g'kal wood.  
  
  



End file.
